


Spiraling

by weeb_idiot



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, How Do I Tag, Identity Issues, It/Its Pronouns For Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Loss of Identity, Mirrors, Trans Michael Shelley, also he/him tho, fuck gertrude robinson me and all my homies hate gertrude robinson, having your who torn bloody from your what, not related to this at all but he is trans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeb_idiot/pseuds/weeb_idiot
Summary: What was left of Michael Shelley stared at the final mirror again, and this time did not hesitate to break it.He hit it much harder than he needed to, it shattered the moment he touched it.And there, Michael Shelley died.-or an indepth look at how i think the Distortion works
Kudos: 17





	Spiraling

When Michael Shelley died, he was sure of exactly two things.

1, That his name was Michael and 2, That Gertrude would come rescue him.

Even as he felt his mind being broken down into nothing, and his senses slip away, he believed with all of his heart that Gertrude would come save him. Maybe it was that foolish illogical hope that let him get as far as he did, maybe it was because the Distortion thrived on lies. Either way, he’d remained enough  _ him _ to get into the Distortion's heart. 

If you asked Michael how he’d managed it, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. He’d closed his eyes for most of it. (though that hadn’t changed anything. He still saw the hallways underneath his eyelids to the point where he no longer knew if his eyes were open or not.) He hadn’t had very good control over his limbs as he walked either, he just couldn’t quite get them to function properly and so had sort of half limped-half skipped to where he was now. 

Standing in the heart however, he felt more himself. He was aware of his senses and could properly close his eyes and not see anything. He could walk normally, and move his arms. His brain could fully process the room he’d walked into.

There was no exit. That was the first thing poor, doomed, Michael Shelley noticed about the room. There was no way in or out, and he had no idea how he’d gotten here. He had vague recollections of a series of turns so tight you were basically just spinning, and then-

And then this.

The room was small, and consisted entirely of mirrors of different lengths and sizes, overlapping in a way that distorted his limbs and features. Michael turned in a full circle before realizing that the mirrors were constantly in motion. Not in any way you could see, but if you blinked they would all suddenly be in different places. 

Looking down at the map Gertrude had given him -a piece of paper with contradictory scribbles covering it- it looked like something a toddler would draw, and yet he knew exactly where he was on the map. He’d followed it to the end. 

Michael knew what was next. The last thing Getrude had said to him before pushing him through the door.  _ Make it to the middle and break all of the mirrors.  _ Then she would come rescue him, he just had to break all the mirrors and then this bizarre place where nothing made sense would collapse and they’d both go back to the archives together. He could forget about the cold way Gertrude had looked at him on the journey here, and go back to filing statements in the safety of the archives. 

He just had to break the mirrors.

And so he started smashing them, slowly and carefully at first, as not to hurt himself, but gradually he stopped holding back entirely.

With every mirror Michael broke, a piece of himself chipped away. The small relief of knowing things were real that had come with the room was now gone, and the overwhelming realization that he didn’t know what was what threatened to pull him under, to make him stop and lose himself entirely to this place. But the faint foolish hope that Gertrude would save him kept him going. 

_ It’ll be okay _ . SMASH.  _ Gertrude will get me out okay.  _ SMASH.  _ We’ll go back to the archives together. _ SMASH.  _ I’m not going to be stuck in this place.  _ SMASH. 

If he’d looked at the mirrors, and  _ really _ tried to see them before they broke. He wouldn’t have seen Michael Shelleys face, only a distorted mess of scribbled black lines slowly taking over more and more of his body, and being stretched out, with all the bones moving to his hands. He wouldn’t have seen a face at all. Only a void with eyes and a mouth. 

Time was impossible to tell from the moment he was pushed inside the door, so he had no idea how long he stood there breaking mirrors. All he knew was that he was punching a mirror one second, and not the next.

All at once the confusion and distortion faded, and he was aware of himself and his surroundings again. In front of him, stood one final mirror. It wasn’t distorted in any way, although Michael didn’t believe that at first. His reflection looked nothing like how he remembered himself. He didn’t have any sort of face or skin, just a mess of black scribbles struggling to form something solid, with eyes, nose, and mouth, that seemed to jump around what would have been his face. His blonde hair, which had before only reached part way down his back, now went down to his feet. Michael was inhumanly thin, and while he’d never been particularly short he was now almost a foot taller than when he’d started. His body looked as if it’d been stretched out. His hands were massive, nearly the size of his torso and were the only part of him that looked actually solid. The bones in his hands jutted out in ways that shouldn’t have been possible, as if the bones that were in his hands weren’t quite where they belonged. 

Michael paused before hitting the final mirror, and looked down at himself. His body matched what the mirror held. He turned over one of his impossibly huge hands, long dried blood and bits of broken glass covered where his knuckles should have been. 

And still, even then, Michael Shelley believed that Gertrude would save him. That breaking the final mirror would revert him to the way he was before. He clung to that hope like someone falling into a pit clung to a string. Impossibly.

What was left of Michael Shelley stared at the final mirror again, and this time did not hesitate to break it.

He hit it much harder than he needed to, it shattered the moment he touched it. 

And there, Michael Shelley died.    
For a very brief moment, there was nothing but hurt and betrayal as he finally realized Gertrude wasn’t coming for him. That he was stuck here.

Then, there was the pain. 

Unimaginable pain as everything that had made Michael Shelley  _ himself _ was destroyed, and in its place something that couldn’t possibly exist was put. It was as if someone took apart the puzzle that was him, and reassembled it with pieces from another puzzle, forced to fit in places they shouldn’t. The agonizing welding of having every piece of your identity and soul stripped away until all that is left is something  _ other _ . If Michael could have screamed, he would have. 

Michael doesn’t know how long he lay on the ground for. He wasn’t even aware of when he’d fallen. 

The pain didn’t stop, but it did lessen to the point where he could hear himself think. Only he was now aware he wasn’t the only one in his head. The thing that had replaced so much of what had made up Michael Shelley was now in his mind, and it didn’t seem to be happy about merging with him either. 

They couldn’t communicate exactly, it wasn’t like two beings trapped in one body. It was more parts of himself that were alien to him. Pieces of him that didn’t quite make sense. 

He tried to stand up, and found that he didn’t know how. He wasn’t used to functioning with the thing that was also him, and it wasn’t used to functioning with him. 

Michael knew that it was feeling around, trying to process what had just happened to it. It wanted it’s freedom back, and it wanted to be in control. So Michael let it. There was no use in fighting, and he was too tired and upset to really care about what that might mean. 

And so, the thing that was not Michael gained more control. 

First things first, he needed to get out of these hallways. He knew that these hallways were also him. So he should be able to control them, but he just didn’t know  _ how. _ It should have been instinctive, and the thing that was not him would have been able to control them without thinking about it, but now found it didn’t know how either. Michael screamed with its frustration. He tried again to move, and managed to twitch his hand. He looked over at his hand, and just knew that it would move if he tried again. And so, he gradually gained some control over himself again. Eventually he moved himself into a standing position, leaning on the wall for support. The thing that was not him was still trying to figure out how to control the hallways that were also it, and Michael had almost figured it out. He needed to stop thinking of himself as separate from the thing that was now also him. He was it, and it was him. The separation was part of the problem. 

Michael opened his mouth. “I’m me. I’m only me. There is just me.” His voice sounded foreign and echoed down the hallways that were also him. “Who am I?” Michael wasn’t used to having an identity, wasn’t sure it was even capable of something so binding. “I’m… Michael.” Michael wasn’t happy with this. He shouldn’t  _ be  _ Michael. “I’m Michael.” It repeated. “There is only me, and I am Michael.”

In front of it, a door opened, exactly where he had meant it to. Michael opened it, and stepped into a field beneath an open sky, away from the hallways where Michael Shelley had died.

It was impossibly bland compared to the hallways that were also Michael, but it needed the change of scenery. He lay down in the grass and stared up into the empty sky. Had it been completely human, it was sure he would have felt the subtle influence of The Awful Deep. The gentle nudge to just fall into that great emptiness. But it felt nothing. 

It thought about Gertrude Robinson, and felt that separation again, as well as the pain. Michael had only the remembrance of a connection to Gertrude Robinson. Michael Shelley had been the one that knew her, and Michael Shelley was gone. Michael as he was now, had never met her. But that wasn’t right, Michael knew Gertrude Robinson and didn’t like her, because- because, because…

Michael couldn’t remember why, only that he had known Gertrude and did not like her. He couldn’t remember being someone before Michael, He tried to scream, to speak, to express in any way what he was feeling but found he couldn’t. The thing that wasn- The thing that  _ was also him _ had become too separate again, it didn’t know Gertrude beyond the knowledge that she served the It-Knows-You, and it was connected to becoming Michael.

“I am Michael. I am only me. There is no one else.” Michael spoke again, and centered itself. There would come a day when he would go and visit Gertrude Robinson, and make her pay for what she’d done to it, but today wouldn’t be that day. The wound was still too fresh. 

Lying there, gazing up at the domain of The Awful Deep, Michael knew fully what he’d become. It knew about the other fears, all connected as one but different enough that a distinction felt important. He knew how to control the hallways that were also it. But it knew only vaguely why this had been done. Why  _ Michael? _ There had been something big they were trying to stop. A ritual. It had been almost complete. It had been happy and then, and then, and then.

And then it had been Michael. 

Michael got up, and returned to the door that should not have been there, and entered the hallways that cannot exist.

-

Michael doesn’t bother to keep track of the time. It’s impossible and pointless to try and keep track of something so fleeting. But it was fairly sure some time had passed since he first became Michael. It’d gotten better at not separating, and it knew more about being an archival assistant. 

It remembered Gertrude Robinson, and what she did to him. 

It hates what he is. It hates that it has a form easily understandable to everything around it. It defies his very purpose, and yet he is stuck with it. He cannot unbecome Michael.

He went to the archives, his door appearing in front of Gertrudes desk.

It stepped out, and found her sitting there, holding an object he cannot see well in her lap.

“Gertrude Robinson.” His voice had a quiet power behind it, a rage that cannot be put into words. Seeing her again split Michael from the thing that is also Michael, as he tried to comprehend why he felt like he did, and the thing that is also Michael hated him for his weakness, and gained even further control over the being that was and was not both of them. “I am Michael.” It’s a sentence said with such pure loathing, that it seemed to take Gertrude by surprise for a second before she composed herself.

“Hello Michael.” She was calm and emotionless, exactly like she was on that day some time ago.

“You made me Michael.” Michael curled his hands into impossible fists. “I do not want to  _ be _ Michael.”

“I’m terribly sorry, but  _ I _ don’t want the world to end. So it had to be done.” She didn’t sound sorry, and her words ignited something in Michael.

He reached out with one hand, sharpening it to a claw. It happened faster than she should have been able to react, but she just pulled up the object in her lap and pressed a button. 

Michael was instantly overcome with a sickening pain. The jolt that ran threw it as he was  _ seen.  _ He, who shouldn’t even have this form, being documented and picked apart and  _ logically justified _ . It was awful. 

Gertrude was holding a camera, Michael knew that. Michael  _ hated _ that. She’d been ready for him. She had known what she was creating when she made it Michael. 

“Stop that!” He couldn’t escape the crawling sensation of being watched, eyes seeing every inch of him. He was supposed to be impossible. “Destroy it!” 

“I’ll destroy it once you say you won’t kill me.” She was still so calm, so utterly unfeeling. 

Michael knew it should not make the deal, should not give up revenge for  _ anything _ , but the pain was so loud he could barely think. And the eye was  _ still watching him. _

“Fine! I won’t kill you!” 

There was a ripping sound, and then the pain was gone. 

The photograph Gertrude held was now blank, there was no indication that Michael was ever there. 

Michael was angry, impossibly angry. Completely united by an overwhelming hatred for the woman in front of it, it could think as clearly as a being of his nature could. 

There was no way he could kill Gertrude Robinson right now. 

It couldn’t attack her without her taking another horrid photograph, he simply wasn’t fast enough. He couldn’t destroy the thing without her using it either. There was no way out. Michael wanted to scream. 

Instead it asked “Do you regret making me Micheal?” 

The pain was back as it split again, a different sort of pain. More of an internal remaking of DNA than a stab wound. But he had to know if she regretted anything, if Michael Shelley had meant anything to her.

She didn’t even pause to think about it. “No.”

This time Michael really did scream. An awful sound that even Gertrude Robinson wasn’t prepared for. She startled and dropped the camera. As it hit the ground, all the lights shattered. 

“I will make sure you live the rest of your life unsure of what is happening, or what is real. You will never be able to form human relationships. Everyone you get close to will  _ know _ from now on that you are leading them into a trap.” Michael strode over to her and placed a sharpened finger against her neck, just enough to draw blood. “I will make  _ sure _ you regret making me Michael.”

Then, without warning he left.

He did not manifest a door- that would have taken too long. He simply was there one moment, and back in the hallways the next. 

-

Deep in the heart of the Distortion, was what remained of Michael Shelley. 

Unable to move on due to the incompleteness of himself, he was trapped as a specter of sorts. He had very limited abilities, only able to move when Michael split into the pieces that once belonged to him, and the being that could and should never exist. He couldn’t always leave, or blink, or scream, but he  _ could _ always see out of Michaels eyes. He knew what Michael knew, because while he was not Michael, he also was. He felt the last bit of respect and admiration for Gertrude fade away, and if he could have cried he would have. 

Instead, he held the map that had led him to his death, clenched in two normal sized hands. 

-

Gertrude Robinson was dead. 

Gertrude Robinson was finally dead. 

It had been The Watchers avatar who had finally got her, after she’d planned to destroy the archives. 

Michael had done as it had promised. Gertrude was lonely for much of the rest of her life, even people who claimed to be her closest friends never really knew her. Gerard Keay had been the one who’d stuck around longest. Michael held a certain respect for him, the way a human might respect an ant who managed to cross the street without being hit by a car. 

Everywhere Gertrude had gone, Michael had also gone. Taunting her with yellow doors only she could see, daring her to step inside. 

It had put them in inconvenient places, such as right in front of where she was walking, or replaced the door to her flat with one. She could never explain them to anyone, and Michael made sure not to mess with the lives of anyone who might be inclined to believe her. It didn’t want to damage the chances of people thinking Gertrude was  _ crazy _ now did it?

Even as she died, Michael made sure the last thing she saw was his door, so she was reminded at the end what she’d done to the people around her. 

It felt a certain satisfaction knowing she was dead. He had finally been avenged. There was a sense of loss as well, though less for who she was and more that he couldn’t torment her anymore. 

He’d gone to the archives to see who had been hired to replace Gertrude Robinson, and had found a young person by the name of Jonathan Sims. 

Michael was somewhat reminded of Michael Shelley at first. They both held the same air of ignorance and fear, although the comparison felt flat when Jon started lashing out and becoming closed off. Michael Shelley had always been very friendly and open. 

Still, he was better than Gertrude. Not at archiving, he was horribly underqualified for the job, and the position should really have gone to his assistant -Sasha? Was her name Sasha?- but at the very least his ignorance made him incredibly non threatening. 

When The Crawling Rot had started it’s attack in the form of The Hive, Michael had surprised itself by stepping in. Sasha -her name  _ was _ Sasha- had been much closer to Gertrude than Jon, although different enough for Michael to not hate her instantly. She was cautious, but curious, and he’d much enjoyed their first conversation. 

_ What are you? _

_ It doesn’t matter, I don’t know if I could describe it if I wanted to, and certainly not to  _ you.  _ How would a melody describe itself if asked? I’m similar. You would not be able to understand what I am, and so I won’t tell you. _

_ If you’re going to talk in cheap riddles and insult me, I’m just going to leave. _

_ Ah, I’m sorry. You can call me… Michael.  _

_ Michael? _

_ Yes. I am… Michael.  _

_ So… What do you want? _

_ Why my poor doomed archival assistant, I want to help! _

_ Help with what exactly? Jane Prentiss? _

_ You really don’t see the big picture yet, do you? I don’t care if you or any of your other colleagues live or die, but the flesh hive is always rash in its attempts. It doesn’t understand how to wait.  _

_...What? _

_ I’m saying that I want to be friends!  _

Michael had put his hand on hers, and had felt her recoil from the feel of it. She had pulled away quickly, and just before leaving Michael had told her where to be if she wanted to save her friends lives.

She’d shown up, which was both surprising and unsurprising. Michael had shown her The Hive and taught her how to deal with it, saved her from becoming one, and then left, Confident it had sown the seeds for what was to happen next. 

The day of the attack on the archives, Michael had been watching. Unseen and unbothered by the waves of worms that stormed the place, it had observed everything. It still knew more than the Archivist did at this point, and it wanted to lord that over him for as long as possible, out of some petty spite it didn’t know it was capable of. 

When the Not-Them had taken Sasha, Michael hadn't felt any sort of loss. It had had no real attachment to the women beyond two brief meetings. He was more interested in how this would affect the Archivists journey. 

As soon as the police showed up, Michael returned to its hallways. No point in watching humans try and justify the impossible. 

The next time it left, it was to catch another person to eat. He’d picked a real estate agency this time. Exciting possibilities there.

He’d paid no real mind to Helen Richardson. She was nothing but another victim. Someone to be messed with until they started messing with themselves. It’d shown her the door, and then left. 

He hadn’t expected the avatar of It-Knows-You to get involved, and by the time it had relocated Helen, she’d already given her statement. 

Oh well, he’d returned her back to the hallways that were also him, and had its first meeting with the Archivist. 

Jonathan Sims was quite an intriguing person, interested only in understanding, and his own safety. A refreshing change from Gertrude Robinson, who had only been interested in stopping rituals and ruining the lives of everyone she met. 

The Archivist hadn’t understood what it was either, although this did not surprise Michael. The Archivist didn't know nearly enough yet. 

_ Who the hell are you? _ Michael could never be a ‘who’. It simply went too far against his nature.

_ I am not a ‘who,’ Archivist, I am a ‘what.’ A ‘who’ requires a degree of identity I can’t ever retain.  _ Although, he’d been Michael for quite some time, that had never been who it  _ was.  _ It didn’t have a  _ was.  _ He simply  _ wasn’t.  _

_ So… Michael isn’t your real name?  _ Michael was not and never would be its name. It shouldn’t have a name. To have one was like trying to wear a sock as a shirt. It wouldn’t ever fit.

_ There is no such thing as a real name.  _ The Archivist wasn’t ready yet. If he made it further, maybe he’d fully understand. 

They’d talked a bit longer, Michael had made sure not to ruin the Archivist's perfect definition of reality, while planting tiny seeds of doubt in his mind. Then it had left. 

Throughout all of this, it had forgotten about Helen Richardson, as she wasn’t anything special. Just another victim. 

-

Helen Richardson had escaped the hallways.

Michael Shelley had known very little in his life, and couldn’t honestly say he knew more in death, but he did know that escaping the hallways wasn’t possible. Even with the influence of It-Knows-You, it simply wasn’t possible to escape this place. Michael Shelley would know, he was holding a map. 

There was something different about Helen Richardson. 

And so, Michael Shelley had managed to get out of the heart. He doesn’t know how, (maybe it was the fact he had a motivation now.) he never knew how. He finds Helen easily, thanks to the map. She was lost and afraid to see him, and he had no way of telling her that he wasn’t going to kill her then. 

He’d condemned her to a much worse fate. 

But he’d been trapped here for so long, unable to move on or even move at all most days. He was tired, and just wanted this to end. He also genuinely believed that Helen Richardson would be different from him. Helen Richardson would not suffer as he had, she was special.

So he gave her the map. 

Then he was back at the heart. He hadn’t meant to go back there. He didn’t know if this meant Michael knew about the map, or how he’d gotten back here.

Michael Shelley didn’t know much of anything. 

-

The Archivist needed a door.

Of that, Michael was certain. The Archivist had done a stupid thing, and needed an exit. It knew the Archivist would take the door, as he valued his life far more now then he would later, if he made it that far. 

The Archivist tasted distinctly of Eye, and Michael was glad to have him gone by the end of it. 

It hadn’t saved The archivist, not really. That wasn’t what he had been trying to do. It was a game to it, and he didn’t want it to end so soon. 

He monitored the Archivist in the tunnels, and intervened when the other assistants tried to help. Why should it let them spoil his fun?

Michael was… inconvenienced by Jurgen Leitner's appearance, although he did provide some decent explanations. Michael had assumed the Archivist knew more by now. 

Michael was amused by Jurgen Leitner’s death. It seemed an appropriate way for him to end, and he was momentarily grateful to It-Knows-You for it. 

Michael laughed to itself and returned to the hallways. The archives were still so busy, full of drama and secrets. Exactly as they had been when Michael Shelley was still alive. 

-

Michael spent what counts as time watching the Archivist as he struggled to understand the way the world works. The Archivist read statements, and worried, and didn’t do much else. He was preoccupied with stopping the Unknowing. Michael was also interested in stopping the Unknowing, although it doubted the Archivist would trust him enough to actually let it be of use. It didn’t want to be of use either way, so it was for the best.

Things get considerably more interesting when the Archivist finds Gertrude Robinsons recording of statement 9522002, the only tape to ever have Michael Shelleys voice on it. 

Michael is startled by the voice of Michael Shelley. The pain returns for the first time in what Michael thinks has been years, and it returns with a vengeance. Michael and the thing that  _ couldn’t  _ be him separated violently. The thing was was not him hated him, had always hated him, for what Michael was, and who Michael Shelley had been. It resented that Michael Shelley had not seen Gertrude for what she was, and avoided her. Michael Shelley had not had a choice. Michael knew that. Michael Shelley had been doomed to walk through that door since the moment he had accepted his job at the archives. 

The Archivist was struggling to understand the nature of what Michael is. He could not possibly know how Michael Shelley had died, and what had happened after. The only being alive that knew was Michael. Everyone else was dead. 

The Archivist assumed Michael had taken this form willingly. 

Michael began to see Jonathan Sims in a new light. If he thought that Michael  _ wanted _ to be Michael, then he was clearly a fool and an idiot, and the Archivist was no role for a fool or an idiot. Michael did not want to be Michael, had not  _ ever  _ wanted to be Michael. Michael resented every second it spent as Michael. 

The Archivist cried out, desperate to understand, to  _ know _ what Michael was.

“I am Michael,” Michael said to itself, almost defeatedly, and left.

Michael wasn’t sure how much later the Archivist was kidnapped, the pain had not fully gone away and had made it harder than usual to understand time. Ever since hearing Michael Shelleys voice, Michael had been unable to fully be itself. The thing that was once part of Michael Shelley was confused and lost, unsure of why he knew of himself now. The thing that was not ever Michael hated him. It always hated him. 

The parts of Michael that once were Michael Shelley fought against the thing that hated him, fought against himself. Michael would never be Michael Shelley, and never had been, but the parts that had once belonged to him were tired of never being fully in control. The thing that was also Michael was surprised, and in it’s surprise Michael managed to become himself more fully. He was still Michael, though he wished he wasn’t, but he was more  _ solid _ somehow. 

He went to the Archivist, to finally get revenge. 

He was surprised to see where the Archivist had ended up. It was almost sad to see him tied to a chair, gagged and barely able to breath. 

Almost. 

Michael would never forget what a previous Archivist had done to him. The Archivist was an inherently horrible position. No one good was ever the Archivist. 

So Michael made up his mind to kill this Archivist, to prevent the Unknowing, and out of revenge. Michael made this decision separate from the thing that was also him. Michael had always been planning to kill the Archivist at some point, but now seemed as good a time as any. Plus he’d stop the Unknowing in the process! There were no downsides. 

Before killing him however, Michael wanted him to  _ understand. _ Michael wasn’t sure why, as understanding went against its very nature, but he was tired of being the only one who truly knew what had happened to Michael Shelley. 

So, he let the Archivist ask his questions.

“How did you find me?” The Archivist did not hesitate with his first question. So caught up in his own safety.  __

“The Eye watches, and the Stranger conceals, but me... I lie, Archivist. I am the throat of delusion incarnate. They cannot hide you from me.” It had been a simple thing, and one Michael did not need to understand, he’d just appeared where the Archivist was. 

There was nowhere anyone could hide anything from Michael. 

“What do you have to do with the Unknowing?” So single minded, obsessed with the small details. The Archivist cared nothing beyond what he believed to be the most important. 

“Nothing! Nothing whatsoever. Except perhaps that I would like it to fail,” Michael laughed.

“So why are you here?” The Archivist was confused. He still did not understand. 

“I already said. To kill you.”

“But- but why?” Could he really not see? Was it not as obvious to him as it was to Michael?

“Because I don’t want the circus to win. And I don’t want the archives to either. Killing you myself… it’s the best of both. And of course, there's revenge.” The pain was back, splitting Michael into two impossible beings who hated the other with everything they were. 

“Revenge? I still don’t even know who you are!” The Archivist would never understand, no one could. 

“I am Michael,” The Distortion and the thing that used to be Michael Shelley said together, as they always did. “I was not  _ always _ … Michael.” There had been a before, although it seemed impossibly far away. “I do not  _ want to be  _ Michael.” Neither of the beings that were Michael had wanted this. Neither of them were happy here. Neither of them could stop it. “Being  _ Michael _ stole the only purpose I have ever known.” To stoop so low as to have an  _ identity _ , to be  _ recognized. _ It hurt the thing that could never be Michael deeply. 

“You were Gertrude’s assistant, weren't you?” Even now, the Archivist could not see what was directly in front of him.

“No.” Michael Shelley had been Gertrudes assistant, and Michael Shelley was dead. It was Michael now.

“But, but the tape- I heard you.” The Archivist sounded almost desperate. He could not-  _ would _ not understand. 

“No. You heard Michael.” Even now, Michael could not bear to say Michael Shelley's last name in reference to Michael. He would not connect himself to Michael Shelley. It would have caused more agony than it was ready to show in front of the fool Archivist. 

“I… What the hell are you talking about?!” Because he could not understand, the archivist turned to anger. How  _ dare _ the world not work the way he thought it should!

“Quiet, Archivist. The cramped casket sings loud, but not loud enough to drown out screaming.” Michael grew tired of the Archivist not understanding. 

The Michael on that tape was not me.” It had never been him. “When that person was Michael, I was something else, and now _ I  _ am Michael.” It did not want to be Michael. “And that person is gone.”

“So, what… You… you became him?” The Archivist was closer to understanding now, but not enough to satisfy the Eye that sustained him.

“No more than he became me.” Neither of them had wanted this. “It is rare that someone I take finds their way into being me, but it does happen. And Michael had help.” The impossible map that Gertrude had given him, just before shoving him inside. 

“What happened?” The Archivist asked. Michael was surprised to feel the influence of the Eye, albeit weakly. It didn’t think the Archivist was strong enough yet.

But wasn’t that why it was here? So someone else could finally understand what had happened to him?

So Michael gave its statement. It told the story of Michael Shelley, and the Great Twisting. He left out some parts, such as the agonizing pain that had taken over it when he’d become Michael. The same pain hurt now, a steady underlying throb as it gave its account of what had happened that day in Sannikov Land, which doesn’t exist and never has. 

“And all that was left was me. Michael.” Michael finished its statement. “That is who I am.” 

The Archivist asked more questions, about Gertrude Robinson and what Michael had done with her. Michael did not bother to tell the Archivist exactly how his encounter with Gertrude Robinson after he became Michael had gone. It did not tell her of the doors or the lies or the loneliness he had inflicted upon her. 

“Is there anything I can do to stop you from killing me?” The Archivist was still so hung up on his safety. Michael laughed. The answer was no of course. 

“If you scream loud enough the Circus may take notice of me.” That was and was not true. The Circus might notice him yes, but it would be long gone before they could do anything about him. But if the Archivist needed to feel like it was his choice, then fine. “But… I promise you will die far more pleasantly with me than with them.” Michael laughed again. 

The Archivist was quiet for a long moment, like he had any choice. 

“Okay.” He was resigned now. 

“Good. Right this way.” Michael sliced the rope tying the Archivist to the chair, and manifested a door in front of him. “Open it. Open it, and this will all be over.”

The Archivist hesitated a moment, before grabbing and twisting the handle in one swift motion. 

The door was locked. 

-

What remained of Michael Shelley stared at Helen Richardson. 

They were both in the heart, although only one of them was really here. 

Helen's eyes were unfocused, and she was leaning heavily against one of the mirrors, all of them having reformed when Michael Shelley died. 

Michael Shelley could not speak, not enough of him remained for that. Instead he gestured to the mirrors. Helen seemed to understand, and started breaking them, as Michael himself had, all that time ago.

Michael Shelley watched as The Distortion overtook Helen, the same way it must have overtaken him. 

It started with your head, a darkness that seemed to come from within spreading out and over your face. Your eyes and mouth stayed more or less where they were, floating around in the sea of messy lines where your skin once was. Your hands and hair grow as well, fingers swelling and distorting in ways that should have been excruciatingly painful. Your body becomes taller, thinner. Your skin being almost entirely replaced by that swarm of scribbled lines. 

You become unrecognizable to yourself. 

Helen did not hesitate at the final mirror, did not bother to stop and look at herself before breaking it. She did not look at what remained of Michael Shelley either. 

She was not doing this for him.

-

Michael knew, the moment he found the door locked. The thing that was not and never would be Michael knew as well. It was happy, almost giddy. It was finally going to be rid of Michael. It finally would be free of the prison Gertrude Robinson had put it in. 

Michael was not happy. 

There was a sudden presence within him. It was not him, and it was not the thing that was not him either. It was someone new. 

A panic overtook him as he realized fully what was coming. 

He did not want to be erased and rewritten. He did not want to disappear. He did not want to be undone. He did not want this, he did not want-

There was a sudden searing pain, as everything that he had despised, everything that had made him Michael disappeared from him. 

He did not want to be Michael.

And then he wasn’t. 

-

_ Do you want to come in? _

_ Wh… Helen? Helen Richardson? But… But y– Michael… _

_ Michael isn’t me. Not now. _

_ What happened? _

_ He got… distracted. Let feelings that shouldn’t have been his overwhelm me. Lost my way.  _

_ And now? Y-you’re... Helen? _

_ I don’t know. I never know, not really. Do I need a name? _

_ No, I suppose not.  _

_ Helen is… better than Michael. _

_ But she’s gone. _

_ Yes. As is Michael. There’s only me. _

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on twitter @weeb_idiot plz i need more tma friends,,
> 
> also ignore any spelling mistakes it just adds to the spiral vibe lol


End file.
